SONGS    OF   LABOE, 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS. 


BY 


JOHN    G.  WHITTIER. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR,    REED,    AND   FIELDS. 

M  DCCC  L. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850,  by 

JOHN    G.    WHITTIER, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE: 

METCALF     AND     COMPANY, 

PRINTERS    TO   THE   UNIVERSITY. 


Stereotyped  by 

HOBART  &   ROBBINS; 

NEW   ENGLAND   TYPE  AND   STEREOTYPE   FOUNDERY, 

BOSTON. 


DEDICATION. 

I  WOULD  the  gift  I  offer  here 

Might  graces  from  thy  favor  take, 
And,  seen  through  Friendship's  atmosphere, 
On  softened  lines  and  coloring,  wear 
The  unaccustomed  light  of  beauty,  for  thy  sake. 

Few  leaves  of  Fancy's  spring  remain : 

But  what  I  have  I  give  to  thee, — 
The  o'er-sunned  bloom  of  summer's  plain, 
And  paler  flowers,  the  latter  rain 
Calls  from  the  westering  slope  of  life's  autumnal  lea. 

Above  the  fallen  groves  of  green, 

Where  youth's  enchanted  forest  stood, 
The  dry  and  wasting  roots  between, 
A  sober  after-growth  is  seen, 

As  springs  the  pine  where  falls  the  gay-leafed  ma'ple 
wood! 


6  DEDICATION. 

Yet  birds  will  sing,  and  breezes  play 

Their  leaf-harps  in  the  sombre  tree ; 
And  through  the  bleak  and  wintry  day 
It  keeps  its  steady  green  alway,  — 
So,  even  my  after-thoughts  may  have  a  charm  for  thee. 

Art's  perfect  forms  no  moral  need, 
And  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  ;l 
But  for  the  dull  and  flowerless  weed 
Some  healing  virtue  still  must  plead, 
And  the  rough  ore  must  find  its  honors  in  its  use. 

So  haply  these,  my  simple  lays 

Of  homely  toil,  may  serve  to  show 
The  orchard  bloom  and  tasselled  maize 
That  skirt  and  gladden  duty's  ways, 
The  unsung  beauty  hid  life's  common  things  below ! 

Haply  from  them  the  toiler,  bent 

Above  his  forge  or  plough,  may  gain 
A  manlier  spirit  of  content, 
And  feel  that  life  is  wisest  spent 

Where  the  strong  working  hand  makes  strong  the  work- 
ing brain :  — 


DEDICATION. 

The  doom  which  to  the  guilty  pair 
Without  the  walls  of  Eden  came, 
Transforming  sinless  ease  to  care 
And  rugged  toil,  no  more  shall  bear 
The  burden  of  old  crime,  or  mark  of  primal  shame. 

A  blessing  now  —  a  curse  no  more  ; 

Since  He,  whose  name  we  breathe  with  awe, 
The  coarse  mechanic  vesture  wore,  — 
A  poor  man  toiling  with  the  poor, 
In  labor,  as  in  prayer,  fulfilling  the  same  law.       *  . 


CONTENTS. 


SONGS    OF    LABOR. 

PAGE 
THE  SHIP-BUILDERS,     .- 13 

THE  SHOEMAKERS, 18 

THE  DROVERS, 23 

THE  FISHERMEN, 29 

THE  HUSKERS, 34 

THE  LUMBERMEN, 42 


POEMS. 

PART  I. 

THE  LAKE-SIDE, 53 

THE  HILL-TOP, 56 

ON  RECEIVING  AN  EAGLE'S  QUILL  FROM  LAKE  SUPERIOR,   ...  61 

MEMORIES,      .   .  66 

THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  MARK, 70 

THE  WELL  OF  LOCH  MAREE. 75 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 
To  MY  SISTER, 77 

AUTUMN  THOUGHTS, 80 

CALEF  IN  BOSTON,  1692, 82 

PART  II. 

To  Pius  IX., 8-5 

ELLIOTT, 90 

ICHABOD  ! 93 

THE  CHRISTIAN  TOURISTS, 95 

THE  MEN  OF  OLD, 99 

THE  PEACE  CONVENTION  AT  BRUSSELS, 103 

THE  WISH  OF  TO-DAY, . 108 

OUR  STATE, .no 

EVENING  IN  BURMAH,      112 

ALL'S  WELL, 117 

SEED  TIME  AND  HARVEST, 118 

To  A.  K., 120 


SONGS    OF    LABOR. 


SONGS   OF  LABOR. 


THE  SHIP-BUILDERS. 

THE  sky  is  ruddy  in  the  East, 

The  earth  is  gray  below, 
And,  spectral  in  the  river-mist, 

The  ship's  white  timbers  show. 
Then  let  the  sounds  of  measured  stroke 

And  grating  saw  begin ; 
The  broad-axe  to  the  gnarled  oak, 

The  mallet  to  the  pin ! 


14  SONGS     OF     LABOR. 

Hark !  —  roars  the  bellows,  blast  on  blast, 

The  sooty  smithy  jars, 
And  fire-sparks,  rising  far  and  fast, 

Are  fading  with  the  stars. 
All  day  for  us  the  smith  shall  stand 

Beside  that  flashing  forge ; 
All  day  for  us  his  heavy  hand 

The  groaning  anvil  scourge. 

From  far-off  hills,  the  panting  team 

For  us  is  toiling  near ; 
For  us  the  raftsmen  down  the  stream 

Their  island  barges  steer. 
Rings  out  for  us  the  axe-man's  stroke 

In  forests  old  and  still, — 
For  us  the  century-circled  oak 

Falls  crashing  down  his  hill. 

Up ! — up !  —  in  nobler  toil  than  ours 

No  craftsmen  bear  a  part : 
We  make  of  Nature's  giant  powers 

The  slaves  of  human  Art. 


THE      SHIP-BUILDERS.  15 

Lay  rib  to  rib  and  beam  to  beam, 

And  drive  the  treenails  free  ; 
Nor  faithless  joint  nor  yawning  seam 

Shall  tempt  the  searching  sea  ! 

Where'er  the  keel  of  our  good  ship 

The  sea's  rough  field  shall  plough  — 
Where'er  her  tossing  spars  shall  drip 

With  salt-spray  caught  below — 
That  ship  must  heed  her  master's  beck, 

Her  helm  obey  his  hand, 
And  seamen  tread  her  reeling  deck 

As  if  they  trod  the  land. 

Her  oaken  ribs  the  vulture-beak 

Of  Northern  ice  may  peel ; 
The  sunken  rock  and  coral  peak 

May  grate  along  her  keel ; 
And  know  we  well  the  painted  shell 

We  give  to  wind  and  wave, 
Must  float,  the  sailor's  citadel, 

Or  sink,  the  sailor's  grave ! 


16  SONGS     OF     LABOR. 

Ho !  —  strike  away  the  bars  and  blocks, 

And  set  the  good  ship  free ! 
Why  lingers  on  these  dusty  rocks 

The  young  bride  of  the  sea  ? 
Look !  how  she  moves  adown  the  grooves, 

In  graceful  beauty  now ! 
How  lowly  on  the  breast  she  loves 

Sinks  down  her  virgin  prow ! 

God  bless  her !  wheresoe'er  the  breeze 

Her  snowy  wing  shall  fan, 
Aside  the  frozen  Hebrides, 

Or  sultry  Hindostan ! 
Where'er,  in  mart  or  on  the  main, 

With  peaceful  flag  unfurled, 
She  helps  to  wind  the  silken  chain 

Of  commerce  round  the  world ! 

Speed  on  the  ship !  —  But  let  her  bear 

• 
No  merchandise  of  sin, 

No  groaning  cargo  of  despair 
Her  roomy  hold  within. 


THE     SHIP-BUILDERS.  17 

No  Lethean  drug  for  Eastern  lands, 

Nor  poison-draught  for  ours ; 
But  honest  fruits  of  toiling  hands 

And  Nature's  sun  and  showers. 

Be  hers  the  Prairie's  golden  grain, 

The  Desert's  golden  sand, 
The  clustered  fruits  of  sunny  Spain, 

The  spice  of  Morning-land ! 
Her  pathway  on  the  open  main 

May  blessings  follow  free, 
And  glad  hearts  welcome  back  again 

Her  white  sails  from  the  sea ! 
2 


THE  SHOEMAKERS. 

Ho !  workers  of  the  old  time  styled 

The  Gentle  Craft  of  Leather ! 
Young  brothers  of  the  ancient  guild, 

Stand  forth  once  more  together  ! 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  olden  merry  manner ! 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  your  blazoned  banner ! 

Rap,  rap !  upon  the  well-worn  stone 

How  falls  the  polished  hammer ! 
Eap,  rap !  the  measured  sound  has  grown 

A  quick  and  merry  clamor. 
Now  shape  the  sole  !  now  deftly  curl 

The  glossy  vamp  around  it, 
And  bless  the  while  the  bright-eyed  girl 

Whose  gentle  fingers  bound  it ! 


THE     SHOEMAKERS.  19 

For  you,  along  the  Spanish  main 

A  hundred  keels  are  ploughing ; 
For  you,  the  Indian  on  the  plain 

His  lasso-coil  is  throwing ; 
For  you,  deep  glens  with  hemlock  dark 

The  woodman's  fire  is  lighting; 
For  you,  upon  the  oak's  gray  bark, 

The  woodman's  axe  is  smiting. 

For  you,  from  Carolina's  pine 

The  rosin-gum  is  stealing ; 
For  you,  the  dark-eyed  Florentine 

Her  silken  skein  is  reeling ; 
For  you,  the  dizzy  goat-herd  roams 

His  rugged  Alpine  ledges ; 
For  you,  round  all  her  shepherd  homes, 

Bloom  England's  thorny  hedges. 

The  foremost  still,  by  day  or  night, 

On  moated  mound  or  heather, 
Where'er  the  need  of  trampled  right 

Brought  toiling  men  together ; 


20  SONGS     OF     LABOR. 

Where  the  free  burghers  from  the  wall 
Defied  the  mail-clad  master, 

Than  yours,  at  Freedom's  trumpet-call, 
No  craftsmen  rallied  faster. 

Let  foplings  sneer,  let  fools  deride  — 

Ye  heed  no  idle  scorner ; 
Free  hands  and  hearts  are  still  your  pride, 

And  duty  done,  your  honor. 
Ye  dare  to  trust,  for  honest  fame, 

The  jury  Time  empanels, 
And  leave  to  truth  each  noble  name 

Which  glorifies  your  annals. 

Thy  songs,  Han  Sachs,  are  living  yet, 

In  strong  and  hearty  German ; 
And  Bloomfield's  lay,  and  Gifford's  wit, 

And  patriot  fame  of  Sherman ; 
Still  from  his  book,  a  mystic  seer, 

The  soul  of  Behmen  teaches, 
And  England's  priestcraft  shakes  to  hear 

Of  Fox's  leathern  breeches ! 


THE     SHOEMAKERS.  21 

The  foot  is  yours ;  where'er  it  falls, 

It  treads  your  well-wrought  leather, 
On  earthen  floor,  in  marble  halls, 

On  carpet,  or  on  heather. 
Still  there  the  sweetest  charm  is  found 

Of  matron  grace  or  vestal's, 
As  Hebe's  foot  bore  nectar  round 

Among  the  old  celestials ! 

Rap !  rap !  —  your  stout  and  bluff  brogan, 

With  footsteps  slow  and  weary, 
May  wander  where  the  sky's  blue  span 

Shuts  down  upon  the  prairie. 
On  Beauty's  foot,  your  slippers  glance, 

By  Saratoga's  fountains, 
Or  twinkle  down  the  summer  dance 

Beneath  the  Crystal  Mountains  ! 

The  red  brick  to  the  mason's  hand, 

The  brown  earth  to  the  tiller's, 
The  shoe  in  yours  shall  wealth  command, 

Like  fairy  Cinderella's ! 


22  SONGS     OF    LABOR. 

As  they  who  shunned  the  household  maid 
Beheld  the  crown  upon  her, 

So  all  shall  see  your  toil  repaid 
With  hearth  and  home  and  honor. 

Then  let  the  toast  be  freely  quaffed, 

In  water  cool  and  brimming — 
"  All  honor  to  the  good  old  Craft, 

Its  merry  men  and  women !  " 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  old  time's  pleasant  manner ; 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  his  blazoned  banner ! 


THE  DROVERS. 

THROUGH  heat  and  cold,  and  shower  and  sun, 

Still  onward  cheerly  driving ! 
There  's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 
But  see !  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us ; 
The  white  fog  of  the  way-side  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  foot-sore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
The  landlord  beckons  from  his  door, 

His  beechen  fire  is  glowing ; 
These  ample  barns,  with  feed  in  store, 

Are  filled  to  overflowing. 


24  SONGS     OF     LABOR. 

From  many  a  valley  frowned  across 

By  brows  of  rugged  mountains ; 
From  hill-sides  where,  through  spongy  moss, 

Gush  out  the  river  fountains ; 
From  quiet  farm-fields,  green  and  low, 

And  bright  with  blooming  clover ; 
From  vales  of  corn  the  wandering  crow 

No  richer  hovers  over ; 

Day  after  day  our  way  has  been, 

O'er  many  a  hill  and  hollow  ; 
By  lake  and  stream,  by  wood  and  glen, 

Our  stately  drove  we  follow. 
Through  dust-clouds  rising  thick  and  dun, 

As  smoke  of  battle  o'er  us, 
Their  white  horns  glisten  in  the  sun, 

Like  plumes  and  crests  before  us. 

We  see  them  slowly  climb  the  hill, 

As  slow  behind  it  sinking ; 
Or,  thronging  close,  from  road-side  rill, 

Or  sunny  lakelet,  drinking. 


THE     DROVERS.  25 

Now  crowding  in  the  narrow  road, 

In  thick  and  struggling  masses, 
They  glare  upon  the  teamster's  load, 

Or  rattling  coach  that  passes. 

Anon,  with  toss  of  horn  and  tail, 

And  paw  of  hoof,  and  bellow, 
They  leap  some  farmer's  broken  pale, 

O'er  meadow-close  or  fallow. 
Forth  comes  the  startled  good-man ;  forth 

Wife,  children,  house-dog,  sally, 
Till  once  more  on  their  dusty  path 

The  baffled  truants  rally. 

We  drive  no  starvelings,  scraggy  grown, 

Loose-legged,  and  ribbed  and  bony, 
Like  those  who  grind  their  noses  down 

On  pastures  bare  and  stony  — 
Lank  oxen,  rough  as  Indian  dogs, 

And  cows  too  lean  for  shadows, 
Disputing  feebly  with  the  frogs 

The  crop  of  saw-grass  meadows ! 


26  SONGS     OF     LABOR. 

In  our  good  drove,  so  sleek  and  fair, 

No  bones  of  leanness  rattle ; 
No  tottering  hide-bound  ghosts  are  there, 

Or  Pharaoh's  evil  cattle. 
Each  stately  beeve  bespeaks  the  hand 

That  fed  him  unrepining ; 
The  fatness  of  a  goodly  land 

In  each  dun  hide  is  shining. 

We  Ve  sought  them  where,  in  warmest  nooks, 

The  freshest  feed  is  growing, 
By  sweetest  springs  and  clearest  brooks 

Through  honeysuckle  flowing; 
Wherever  hill-sides,  sloping  south, 

Are  bright  with  early  grasses, 
Or,  trackling  green  the  lowland's  drouth, 

The  mountain  streamlet  passes. 

But  now  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us, 
The  white  fog  of  the  way-side  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 


THEDROVERS.  27 

The  cricket  to  the  frog's  bassoon 

His  shrillest  time  is  keeping ; 
The  sickle  of  yon  setting  moon 

The  meadow-mist  is  reaping. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  foot-sore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
To-morrow,  eastward  with  our  charge 

We'll  go  to  meet  the  dawning, 
Ere  yet  the  pines  of  Kearsarge 

Have  seen  the  sun  of  morning. 

When  snow-flakes  o'er  the  frozen  earth, 

Instead  of  birds,  are  flitting ; 
When  children  throng  the  glowing  hearth, 

And  quiet  wives  are  knitting ; 
While  in  the  fire-light  strong  and  clear 

Young  eyes  of  pleasure  glisten, 
To  tales  of  all  we  see  and  hear 

The  ears  of  home  shall  listen. 


28  SONGS     OF     LABOR. 

By  many  a  Northern  lake  and  hill, 

From  many  a  mountain  pasture, 
Shall  Fancy  play  the  Drover  still, 

And  speed  the  long  night  faster. 
Then  let  us  on,  through  shower  and  sun, 

And  heat  and  cold,  be  driving ; 
There's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 


THE  FISHERMEN. 

HURRAH  !  the  seaward  breezes 

Sweep  down  the  bay  amain ; 
Heave  up,  my  lads,  the  anchor ! 

Run  up  the  sail  again ! 
Leave  to  the  lubber  landsmen 

The  rail-car  and  the  steed ; 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed. 

From  the  hill-top  looks  the  steeple, 

And  the  light-house  from  the  sand ; 
And  the  scattered  pines  are  waving 

Their  farewell  from  the  land. 
One  glance,  my  lads,  behind  us, 

For  the  homes  we  leave  one  sigh, 
Ere  we  take  the  change  and  chances 

Of  the  ocean  and  the  sky. 


30  SONGS     OF     LABOR. 

Now  brothers,  for  the  icebergs 

Of  frozen  Labrador, 
Floating  spectral  in  the  moonshine, 

Along  the  low,  black  shore ! 
Where  like  snow  the  gannet's  feathers 

On  Brador's  rocks  are  shed, 
And  the  noisy  murr  are  flying, 

Like  black  scuds,  overhead ; 

Where  in  mist  the  rock  is  hiding, 

And  the  sharp  reef  lurks  below, 
And  the  white  squall  smites  in  summer, 

And  the  autumn  tempests  blow; 
Where,  through  gray  and  rolling  vapor, 

From  evening  unto  morn, 
A  thousand  boats  are  hailing, 

Horn  answering  unto  horn. 

Hurrah !  for  the  Red  Island, 

With  the  white  cross  on  its  crown ! 

Hurrah !  for  Meccatina, 

And  its  mountains  bare  and  brown ! 


THE     FISHERMEN.  31 

Where  the  Caribou's  tall  antlers 

O'er  the  dwarf- wood  freely  toss, 
And  the  footstep  of  the  Mickmack 

Has  no  sound  upon  the  moss. 

There  we  '11  drop  our  lines,  and  gather 

Old  Ocean's  treasures  in, 
Where'er  the  mottled  mackerel 

Turns  up  a  steel-dark  fin. 
The  sea 's  our  field  of  harvest, 

Its  scaly  tribes  our  grain ; 
We  '11  reap  the  teeming  waters 

As  at  home  they  reap  the  plain ! 

Our  wet  hands  spread  the  carpet, 

And  light  the  hearth  of  home ; 
From  our  fish,  as  in  the  old  time, 

The  silver  coin  shall  come. 
As  the  demon  fled  the  chamber 

Where  the  fish  of  Tobit  lay, 
So  ours  from  all  our  dwellings 

Shall  frighten  Want  away. 


32  SONGS     OF     LABOR. 

Though  the  mist  upon  our  jackets 

In  the  bitter  air  congeals, 
And  our  lines  wind  stiff  and  slowly 

From  off  the  frozen  reels ; 
Though  the  fog  be  dark  around  us, 

And  the  storm  blow  high  and  loud, 
We  will  whistle  down  the  wild  wind, 

And  laugh  beneath  the  cloud ! 

In  the  darkness  as  in  daylight, 

On  the  water  as  on  land, 
God's  eye  is  looking  on  us, 

And  beneath  us  is  His  hand ! 
Death  will  find  us  soon  or  later, 

On  the  deck  or  in  the  cot ; 
And  we  cannot  meet  him  better 

Than  in  working  out  our  lot. 

Hurrah !  —  hurrah !  —  the  west  wind 
Comes  freshening  down  the  bay, 

The  rising  sails  are  filling  — 
Give  way,  my  lads,  give  way ! 


THE     FISHER  MEN.  33 

Leave  the  coward  landsman  clinging 
To  the  dull  earth,  like  a  weed  — 

The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 
And  the  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed ! 
3 


THE  HUSKERS. 

IT  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long  autumnal 
rain 

Had  left  the  summer  harvest-fields  all  green  with  grass 
again; 

The  first  sharp  frosts  had  fallen,  leaving  all  the  wood- 
lands gay 

With  the  hues  of  summer's  rainbow,  or  the  meadow- 
flowers  of  May. 

Through  a  thin,  dry  mist,  that  morning,  the  sun  rose 
broad  and  red, 

At  first  a  rayless  disc  of  fire,  he  brightened  as  he  sped ; 

Yet,  even  his  noontide  glory  fell  chastened  and  sub- 
dued, 

On  the  corn-fields  and  the  orchards,  and  softly  pictured 
wood. 


THEHUSKERS.  35 

And  all  that  quiet  afternoon,  slow  sloping  to  the  night, 
He  wove  with  golden   shuttle   the   haze   with  yellow 

light; 
Slanting  through  the  painted  beeches,  he  glorified  the 

hill; 
And,  beneath  it,  pond  and  meadow  lay  brighter,  greener 

still. 

And  shouting  boys  in  woodland  haunts  caught  glimpses 

of  that  sky, 
Flecked  by  the  many-tinted  leaves,  and  laughed,  they 

knew  not  why ; 
And   school-girls,   gay  with  aster-flowers,   beside    the 

meadow  brooks, 
Mingled  the  glow  of  autumn  with  the  sunshine  of  sweet 

looks. 

From  spire  and  barn,  looked  westerly  the  patient  weather- 
cocks ; 

But  even  the  birches  on  the  hill  stood  motionless  as 
rocks. 


36  SONGS     OF    LABOR. 

No  sound  was  in  the  woodlands,  save   the   squirrel's 

dropping  shell, 
And  the  yellow  leaves  among  the  boughs,  low  rustling 

as  they  fell. 

The  summer  grains  were  harvested ;  the  stubble-fields 

lay  dry, 
Where  June  winds  rolled,  in  light  and  shade,  the  pale- 

green  waves  of  rye ; 
But  still,  on  gentle  hill-slopes,  in  valleys  fringed  with 

wood, 
Ungathered,  bleaching  in  the  sun,  the  heavy  com  crop 

stood. 

Bent  low,  by  autumn's  wind  and  rain,  through  husks 

that,  dry  and  sere, 
Unfolded  from  their  ripened  charge,  shone  out  the  yellow 

ear; 
Beneath,  the  turnip  lay  concealed,  in  many  a  verdant 

fold, 
And  glistened  in  the  slanting  light  the  pumpkin's  sphere 

of  gold. 


THEHUSKERS.  37 

There  wrought  the  busy  harvesters ;  and  many  a  creak- 
ing wain 

Bore  slowly  to  the  long  barn-floor  its  load  of  husk  and 
grain ; 

Till  broad  and  red,  as  when  he  rose,  the  sun  sank  down, 
at  last, 

And  like  a  merry  guest's  farewell,  the  day  in  brightness 
passed. 

And  lo !   as  through  the  western  pines,  on  meadow, 

stream  and  pond, 

Flamed  the  red  radiance  of  a  sky,  set  all  afire  beyond, 
Slowly  o'er  the  Eastern  sea-blufls  a  milder  glory  shone, 
And  the  sunset  and  the  moonrise  were  mingled  into  one ! 

As  thus  into  the  quiet  night  the  twilight  lapsed  away, 
And  deeper  in  the  brightening  moon  the  tranquil  shadows 

lay; 
From  many  a  brown  old  farm-house,  and  hamlet  without 

name, 
Their  milking  and  their  home-tasks  done,  the  merry 

huskers  came. 


38  SONGSOFLABOR. 

Swung  o'er  the  heaped-up  harvest,  from  pitchforks  in 

the  mow, 
Shone  dimly  down  the  lanterns  on  the  pleasant  scene 

below ; 

The  growing  pile  of  husks  behind,  the  golden  ears  before, 
And  laughing  eyes  and  busy  hands  and  brown  cheeks 

glimmering  o'er. 

Half  hidden  in  a  quiet  nook,  serene  of  look  and  heart, 

Talking  their  old  times  over,  the  old  men  sat  apart ; 

While,  up  and  down  the  unhusked  pile,  or  nestling  in 
its  shade, 

At  hide-and-seek,  with  laugh  and  shout,  the  happy  chil- 
dren played. 

Urged  by  the  good  host's  daughter,  a  maiden  young  and 

fair, 
Lifting  to  light  her  sweet  blue  eyes  and  pride  of  soft 

brown  hair> 
The  master  of  the  village  school,  sleek  of  hair  and 

smooth  of  tongue, 
To  the  quaint  tune  of  some  old  psalm,  a  husking-ballad 

sung. 

/ 

H 


THEHUSKERS.  39 


THE   CORN   SONG. 

Heap  high  the  fanner's  wintry  hoard ! 

Heap  high  the  golden  corn ! 
No  richer  gift  has  Autumn  poured 

From  out  her  lavish  horn ! 

Let  other  lands,  exulting,  glean 

The  apple  from  the  pine, 
The  orange  from  its  glossy  green, 

The  cluster  from  the  vine ; 

We  better  love  the  hardy  gift 

Our  rugged  vales  bestow, 
To  cheer  us  when  the  storm  shall  drift 

Our  harvest-fields  with  snow. 

Through  vales  of  grass  and  meads  of  flowers, 
Our  ploughs  their  furrows  made, 

While  on  the  hills  the  sun  and  showers 
Of  changeful  April  played. 


40  SONGSOFLABOR. 

We  dropped  the  seed  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

Beneath  the  sun  of  May, 
And  frightened  from  our  sprouting  grain 

The  robber  crows  away. 

All  through  the  long,  bright  days  of  June, 
Its  leaves  grew  green  and  fair, 

And  waved  in  hot  midsummer's  noon 
Its  soft  and  yellow  hair. 

And  now,  with  Autumn's  moonlit  eves, 

Its  harvest  time  has  come, 
We  pluck  away  the  frosted  leaves, 

And  bear  the  treasure  home. 

There,  richer  than  the  fabled  gift 

Apollo  showered  of  old, 
Fair  hands  the  broken  grain  shall  sift, 

And  knead  its  meal  of  gold. 

Let  vapid  idlers  loll  in  silk, 

Around  their  costly  board ; 
Give  us  the  bowl  of  samp  and  milk, 

By  homespun  beauty  poured ! 


THEHUSKERS.  41 

Where'er  the  wide  old  kitchen  hearth 

Sends  up  its  smoky  curls, 
Who  will  not  thank  the  kindly  earth, 

And  bless  our  farmer  girls ! 

Then  shame  on  all  the  proud  and  vain, 

Whose  folly  laughs  to  scorn 
The  blessing  of  our  hardy  grain, 

Our  wealth  of  golden  corn ! 

Let  earth  withhold  her  goodly  root, 

Let  mildew  blight  the  rye, 
Give  to  the  worm  the  orchard's  fruit, 

The  wheat-field  to  the  fly : 

But  let  the  good  old  crop  adorn 

The  hills  our  fathers  trod ; 
Still  let  us,  for  His  golden  corn, 

Send  up  our  thanks  to  God ! 


THE    LUMBERMEN. 

WILDLY  round  our  woodland  quarters, 

Sad-voiced  Autumn  grieves ; 
Thickly  down  these  swelling  waters 

Float  his  fallen  leaves. 
Through  the  tall  and  naked  timber, 

Column-like  and  old, 
Gleam  the  sunsets  of  November, 

From  their  skies  of  gold. 

O'er  us,  to  the  southland  heading, 

Screams  the  gray  wild-goose ; 
On  the  night-frost  sounds  the  treading 

Of  the  brindled  moose. 
Noiseless  creeping,  while  we  're  sleeping, 

Frost  his  task-work  plies ; 
Soon,  his  icy  bridges  heaping, 

Shall  our  log-piles  rise. 


THELUMBERMEN.  43 

When,  with  sounds  of  smothered  thunder, 

On  some  night  of  rain, 
Lake  and  river  break  asunder 

Winter's  weakened  chain, 
Down  the  wild  March  flood  shall  bear  them 

To  the  saw-mill's  wheel, 
Or  where  Steam,  the  slave,  shall  tear  them 

With  his  teeth  of  steel. 

Be  it  starlight,  be  it  moonlight, 

In  these  vales  below, 
When  the  earliest  beams  of  sunlight 

Streak  the  mountain's  snow, 
Crisps  the  hoar-frost,  keen  and  early, 

To  our  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  forest  echoes  clearly 

All  our  blows  repeat. 

Where  the  crystal  Ambijejis 

Stretches  broad  and  clear, 
And  Millnoket's  pine-black  ridges 

Hide  the  browsing  deer : 


44  SONGS    OF     LABOR. 

Where,  through  lakes  and  wide  morasses, 

Or  through  rocky  walls, 
Swift  and  strong,  Penobscot  passes 

White  with  foamy  falls ; 

Where,  through  clouds,  are  glimpses  given 

Of  Katahdin's  sides,  — 
Rock  arid  forest  piled  to  heaven, 

Torn  and  ploughed  by  slides  ! 
Far  below,  the  Indian  trapping, 

In  the  sunshine  warm ; 
Far  above,  the  snow-cloud  wrapping 

Half  the  peak  in  storm ! 

Where  are  mossy  carpets  better 

Than  the  Persian  weaves, 
And  than  Eastern  perfumes  sweeter 

Seem  the  fading  leaves ; 
And  a  music  wild  and  solemn, 

From  the  pine-tree's  height, 
Rolls  its  vast  and  sea-like  volume 

On  the  wind  of  night ; 


THE     LUMBERMEN.  45 

Make  we  here  our  camp  of  winter ; 

And,  through  sleet  and  snow, 
Pitchy  knot  and  beechen  splinter 

On  our  hearth  shall  glow. 
Here,  with  mirth  to  lighten  duty, 

We  shall  lack  alone 
Woman's  smile  and  girlhood's  beauty, 

Childhood's  lisping  tone. 

But  their  hearth  is  brighter  burning 

For  our  toil  to-day ; 
And  the  welcome  of  returning 

Shall  our  loss  repay, 
When,  like  seamen  from  the  waters, 

From  the  woods  we  come, 
Greeting  sisters,  wives  and  daughters, 

Angels  of  our  home  ! 

Not  for  us  the  measured  ringing 

From  the  village  spire, 
Not  for  us  the  Sabbath  singing 

Of  the  sweet-voiced  choir : 


46  SONGSOFLABOR. 

Ours  the  old,  majestic  temple, 
Where  God's  brightness  shines 

Down  the  dome  so  grand  and  ample, 
Propped  by  lofty  pines ! 

Through  each  branch-enwoven  skylight, 

Speaks  He  in  the  breeze, 
As  of  old  beneath  the  twilight 

Of  lost  Eden's  trees  ! 
For  His  ear,  the  inward  feeling 

Needs  no  outward  tongue ; 
He  can  see  the  spirit  kneeling 

While  the  axe  is  swung. 

Heeding  truth  alone,  and  turning 

From  the  false  and  dim, 
Lamp  of  toil  or  altar  burning 

Are  alike  to  Him. 
Strike,  then,  comrades  !  —  Trade  is  waiting 

On  our  rugged  toil ; 
Far  ships  waiting  for  the  freighting 

Of  our  woodland  spoil ! 


THELUMBERMEN.  47 

Ships,  whose  traffic  links  these  highlands, 

Bleak  and  cold,  of  ours, 
With  the  citron-planted  islands 

Of  a  clime  of  flowers ; 
To  our  frosts  the  tribute  bringing 

Of  eternal  heats ; 
In  our  lap  of  winter  flinging 

Tropic  fruits  and  sweets. 

Cheerly,  on  the  axe  of  labor, 

Let  the  sunbeams  dance, 
Better  than  the  flash  of  sabre 

Or  the  gleam  of  lance ! 
Strike  !  —  With  every  blow  is  given 

Freer  sun  and  sky, 
And  the  long-hid  earth  to  heaven 

Looks,  with  wondering  eye ! 

Loud  behind  us  grow  the  murmurs 

Of  the  age  to  come ; 
Clang  of  smiths,  and  tread  of  farmers, 

Bearing  harvest  home ! 


48  SONGS     OF     LABOR. 

Here  her  virgin  lap  with  treasures 
Shall  the  green  earth  fill ; 

Waving  wheat  and  golden  maize-ears 
Crown  each  beechen  hill. 

Keep  who  will  the  city's  alleys, 

Take  the  smooth-shorn  plain,  — 
Give  to  us  the  cedar  valleys, 

Rocks  and  hills  of  Maine  ! 
In  our  North-land,  wild  and  woody, 

Let  us  still  have  part ; 
Rugged  nurse  and  mother  sturdy, 

Hold  us  to  thy  heart ! 

0 !  our  free  hearts  beat  the  warmer 

For  thy  breath  of  snow ; 
And  our  tread  is  all  the  firmer 

For  thy  rocks  below. 
Freedom,  hand  in  hand  with  labor, 

Walketh  strong  and  brave  ; 
On  the  forehead  of  his  neighbor 

No  man  writeth  Slave  ! 


THE     LUMBERMEN.  49 

Lo,  the  day  breaks  !  old  Katahdin's 

Pine-trees  show  its  fires, 
While  from  these  dim  forest  gardens 

Rise  their  blackened  spires. 
Up,  my  comrades  !  up  and  doing ! 

Manhood's  rugged  play 
Still  renewing,  bravely  hewing 

Through  the  world  our  way ! 


POEMS. 


POEMS. 


PART  I. 

THE  LAKE-SIDE. 

THE  shadows  round  the  inland  sea 

Are  deepening  into  night ; 
Slow  up  the  slopes  of  Ossipee 

They  chase  the  lessening  light. 
Tired  of  the  long  day's  blinding  heat, 

I  rest  my  languid  eye, 
Lake  of  the  Hills !  where,  cool  and  sweet, 

Thy  sunset  waters  lie ! 

Along  the  sky,  in  wavy  lines, 

O'er  isle  and  reach  and  bay, 
Green-belted  with  eternal  pines, 

The  mountains  stretch  away. 


54  POEMS. 

Below,  the  maple  masses  sleep 
Where  shore  with  water  blends, 

While  midway  on  the  tranquil  deep 
The  evening  light  descends. 

So  seemed  it  when  yon  hill's  red  crown, 

Of  old,  the  Indian  trod, 
And,  through  the  sunset  air,  looked  down 

Upon  the  Smile  of  God.2 
To  him,  of  light  and  shade  the  laws 

No  forest  sceptic  taught ; 
Their  living  and  eternal  Cause 

His  truer  instinct  sought. 

He  saw  these  mountains  in  the  light 

Which  now  across  them  shines ; 
This  lake,  in  summer  sunset  bright, 

Walled  round  with  sombering  pines. 
God  near  him  seemed ;  from  earth  and  skies 

His  loving  voice  he  heard, 
As,  face  to  face,  in  Paradise, 

Man  stood  before  the  Lord. 


THE     LAKE -SIDE.  55 

Thanks,  oh,  our  Father !  that,  like  him, 

Thy  tender  love  I  see, 
In  radiant  hill  and  woodland  dim, 

And  tinted  sunset  sea. 
For  not  in  mockery  dost  Thou  fill 

Our  earth  with  light  and  grace  ; 
Thou  hid'st  no  dark  and  cruel  will 

Behind  Thy  smiling  face  ! 


THE   HILL-TOP. 

THE  burly  driver  at  my  side, 

We  slowly  climbed  the  hill, 
Whose  summit,  in  the  hot  noontide, 

Seemed  rising,  rising  still. 
At  last,  our  short  noon-shadows  hid 

The  top-stone,  bare  and  brown, 
From  whence,  like  Gizeh's  pyramid, 

The  rough  mass  slanted  down. 

I  felt  the  cool  breath,  of  the  North ; 

Between  me  and  the  sun, 
O'er  deep,  still  lake,  and  ridgy  earth, 

I  saw  the  cloud-shades  run. 
Before  me,  stretched  for  glistening  miles, 

Lay  mountain-girdled  Squam ; 
Like  green-winged  birds,  the  leafy  isles 

Upon  its  bosom  swam. 


THE    HILL-TOP.  57 

And,  glimmering  through  the  sun-haze  warm, 

Far  as  the  eye  could  roam, 
Dark  billows  of  an  earthquake  storm 

Beflecked  with  clouds  like  foam, 
Their  vales  in  misty  shadow  deep, 

Their  rugged  peaks  in  shine, 
I  saw  the  mountain  ranges  sweep 

The  horizon's  northern  line. 

There  towered  Chocorua's  peak ;  and  west, 

Moosehillock's  woods  were  seen, 
With  many  a  nameless  slide-scarred  crest 

And  pine-dark  gorge  between. 
Beyond  them,  like  a  sun-rimmed  cloud, 

The  great  Notch  mountains  shone, 
Watched  over  by  the  solemn-browed 

And  awful  face  of  stone ! 

"  A  good  look-off !  "  the  driver  spake  : 

"  About  this  time,  last  year, 
I  drove  a  party  to  the  Lake, 

And  stopped,  at  evening,  here. 


58  POEMS. 

'T  was  duskish  down  below ;  but  all 
These  hills  stood  in  the  sun, 

Till,  dipped  behind  yon  purple  wall, 
He  left  them,  one  by  one. 

"  A  lady,  who,  from  Thornton  hill, 
Had  held  her  place  outside, 

And,  as  a  pleasant  woman  will, 
Had  cheered  the  long,  dull  ride, 

Besought  me,  with  so  sweet  a  smile, 
That  —  though  I  hate  delays  — 

I  could  not  choose  but  rest  awhile  — 
(These  women  have  such  ways  ! ) 

"  On  yonder  mossy  ledge  she  sat, 

Her  sketch  upon  her  knees, 
A  stray  brown  lock  beneath  her  hat 

Unrolling  in  the  breeze  ; 
Her  sweet  face,  in  the  sunset  light 

Upraised  and  glorified, — 
I  never  saw  a  prettier  sight 

In  all  my  mountain  ride. 


THE    HILL-TOP.  59 

"  As  good  as  fair ;  it  seemed  her  joy 

To  comfort  and  to  give ; 
My  poor,  sick  wife,  and  cripple  boy, 
Will  bless  her  while  they  live  !  " 
The  tremor  in  the  driver's  tone 
His  manhood  did  not  shame  : 
"  I  dare  say,  sir,  you  may  have  known  —  " 
He  named  a  well-known  name. 

Then  sank  the  pyramidal  mounds, 

The  blue  lake  fled  away ; 
For  mountain-scope  a  parlor's  bounds, 

A  lighted  hearth  for  day ! 
And  lonely  years  and  weary  miles 

Did  at  that  name  depart ; 
Kind  voices  cheered,  sweet  human  smiles 

Shone  warm  into  my  heart. 

We  journeyed  on ;  but  earth  and  sky 

Had  power  to  charm  no  more ; 
Still  dreamed  my  inward-turning  eye 

The  dream  of  memory  o'er. 


60  POEMS. 

Ah !  human  kindness,  human  love  — 
To  few  who  seek  denied  — 

Too  late  we  learn  to  prize  above 
The  whole  round  world  beside ! 


ON    RECEIVING    AN    EAGLE'S    QUILL 
FROM    LAKE    SUPERIOR. 

ALL  day  the  darkness  and  the  cold 

Upon  my  heart  have  lain, 
Like  shadows  on  the  winter  sky, 

Like  frost  upon  the  pane ; 

But  now  my  torpid  fancy  wakes, 

And,  on  thy  Eagle's  plume, 
Rides  forth,  like  Sinbad  on  his  bird, 

Or  witch  upon  her  broom ! 

Below  me  roar  the  rocking  pines, 

Before  me  spreads  the  lake, 
Whose  long  and  solemn-sounding  waves 

Against  the  sunset  break. 

I  hear  the  wild  Rice-Eater  thresh 

The  grain  he  has  not  sown ; 
I  see,  with  flashing  scythe  of  fire, 

The  prairie  harvest  mown ! 


62  POEMS. 

I  hear  the  far-off  voyager's  horn ; 

I  see  the  Yankee's  trail  — 
His  foot  on  every  mountain-pass, 

On  every  stream  his  sail. 

By  forest,  lake  and  water-fall, 

I  see  his  pedler  show ; 
The  mighty  mingling  with  the  mean, 

The  lofty  with  the  low. 

He 's  whittling  by  St.  Mary's  Falls, 

Upon  his  loaded  wain ; 
He  's  measuring  o'er  the  Pictured  Kocks, 

With  eager  eyes  of  gain. 

I  hear  the  mattock  in  the  mine, 
The  axe-stroke  in  the  dell, 

The  clamor  from  the  Indian  lodge, 
The  Jesuit  chapel  bell ! 

I  see  the  swarthy  trappers  come 
From  Mississippi's  springs ; 

And  war-chiefs,  with  their  painted  brows, 
And  crests  of  eagle  wings. 


ON    RECEIVING    AN    EAGLETS    QUILL.         63 

Behind  the  scared  squaw's  birch  canoe, 
The  steamer  smokes  and  raves ; 

And  city  lots  are  staked  for  sale 
Above  old  Indian  graves. 

I  hear  the  tread  of  pioneers 

Of  nations  yet  to  be ; 
The  first  low  wash  of  waves,  where  soon 

Shall  roll  a  human  sea. 

The  rudiments  of  empire  here 

Are  plastic  yet,  and  warm ; 
The  chaos  of  a  mighty  world 

Is  rounding  into  form ! 

Each  rude  and  jostling  fragment  soon 

Its  fitting  place  shall  find  — 
The  raw  material  of  a  State, 

Its  muscle  and  its  mind ! 

And,  westering  still,  the  star  which  leads 

The  New  World  in  its  train 
Has  tipped  with  fire  the  icy  spears 

Of  many  a  mountain  chain. 


64  POEMS. 

The  snowy  cones  of  Oregon 

Are  kindling  on  its  way ; 
And  California's  golden  sands 

Gleam  brighter  in  its  ray ! 

Then,  blessings  on  thy  eagle  quill, 

As,  wandering  far  and  wide, 
I  thank  thee  for  this  twilight  dream 

And  Fancy's  airy  ride ! 

Yet,  welcomer  than  regal  plumes, 
Which  "Western  trappers  find, 

Thy  free  and  pleasant  thoughts,  chance-sown, 
Like  feathers  on  the  wind. 

Thy  symbol  be  the  mountain-bird, 
Whose  glistening  quill  I  hold ; 

Thy  home  the  ample  air  of  hope, 
And  memory's  sunset  gold ! 

In  thee,  let  joy  with  duty  join, 
And  strength  unite  with  love, 

The  eagle's  pinions  folding  round 
The  warm  heart  of  the  dove ! 


ON     RECEIVING    AN     EAGLE  5S     QUILL.         65 

So,  when  in  darkness  sleeps  the  vale 
Where  still  the  blind  bird  clings, 

The  sunshine  of  the  upper  sky 
Shall  glitter  on  thy  wings ! 


MEMORIES. 

A  BEAUTIFUL  and  happy  girl, 

With  step  as  light  as  summer  air, 
Eyes  glad  with  smiles,  and  brow  of  pearl, 
Shadowed  by  many  a  careless  curl 

Of  unconfined  and  flowing  hair : 
A  seeming  child  in  everything, 

Save  thoughtful  brow  and  ripening  charms, 
As  Nature  wears  the  smile  of  Spring 

When  sinking  into  Summer's  arms. 

A  mind  rejoicing  in  the  light 

Which  melted  through  its  graceful  bower, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  dew-moist  and  bright, 
And  stainless  in  its  holy  white, 

Unfolding  like  a  morning  flower : 
A  heart,  which,  like  a  fine-toned  lute, 

With  every  breath  of  feeling  woke. 
And,  even  when  the  tongue  was  mute, 

From  eye  and  lip  in  music  spoke. 


MEMORIES.  67 

How  thrills  once  more  the  lengthening  chain 

Of  memory,  at  the  thought  of  thee ! 
Old  hopes  which  long  in  dust  have  lain, 
Old  dreams,  come  thronging  back  again, 

And  boyhood  lives  again  in  me ; 
I  feel  its  glow  upon  my  cheek, 

Its  fulness  of  the  heart  is  mine, 
As  when  I  leaned  to  hear  thee  speak, 

Or  raised  my  doubtful  eye  to  thine. 

I  hear  again  thy  low  replies, 

I  feel  thy  arm  within  my  own, 
And  timidly  again  uprise 
The  fringed  lids  of  hazel  eyes, 

With  soft  brown  tresses  overblown. 
Ah !  memories  of  sweet  summer  eves, 

Of  moonlit  wave  and  willowy  way, 
Of  stars  and  flowers,  and  dewy  leaves, 

And  smiles  and  tones  more  dear  than  they ! 

Ere  this,  thy  quiet  eye  hath  smiled 
My  picture  of  thy  youth  to  see, 


68  r  o  E  M  s . 

When,  half  a  woman,  half  a  child, 
Thy  very  artlessness  beguiled, 

And  folly's  self  seemed  wise  in  thee ; 
I  too  can  smile,  when  o'er  that  hour 

The  lights  of  memory  backward  stream, 
Yet  feel  the  while  that  manhood's  power 

Is  vainer  than  my  boyhood's  dream. 

Years  have  passed  on,  and  left  their  trace 

Of  graver  care  and  deeper  thought ; 
And  unto  me  the  calm,  cold  face 
Of  manhood,  and  to  thee  the  grace 

Of  woman's  pensive  beauty  brought. 
More  wide,  perchance,  for  blame  than  praise, 

The  school-boy's  humble  name  has  flown ; 
Thine,  in  the  green  and  quiet  ways 

Of  unobtrusive  goodness  known. 

And  wider  yet  in  thought  and  deed 

Diverge  our  pathways,  one  in  youth ; 
Thine  the  Genevan's  sternest  creed, 
While  answers  to  my  spirit's  need 
The  Derby  dalesman's  simple  truth. 


MEMORIES.  69 

For  thee,  the  priestly  rite  and  prayer, 

And  holy  day,  and  solemn  psalm; 
For  me,  the  silent  reverence  where 

My  brethren  gather,  slow  and  calm. 

Yet  hath  thy  spirit  left  on  me 

An  impress  Time  has  worn  not  out, 
And  something  of  myself  in  thee, 
A  shadow  from  the  past,  I  see, 

Lingering,  even  yet,  thy  way  about ; 
Not  wholly  can  the  heart  unlearn 

That  lesson  of  its  better  hours, 
Not  yet  has  Time's  dull  footstep  worn 

To  common  dust  that  path  of  flowers. 

Thus,  while  at  times  before  our  eyes 

The  shadows  melt,  and  fall  apart, 
And,  smiling  through  them,  round  us  lies 
The  warm  light  of  our  morning  skies  — 

The  Indian  Summer  of  the  heart !  — 
In  secret  sympathies  of  mind, 

In  founts  of  feeling  which  retain 
Their  pure,  fresh  flow,  we  yet  may  find 

Our  early  dreams  not  wholly  vain  ! 


THE    LEGEND    OF    ST.  MARK.3 

THE  day  is  closing  dark  and  cold, 

With  roaring  blast  and  sleety  showers ; 

And  through  the  dusk  the  lilacs  wear 
The  bloom  of  snow,  instead  of  flowers. 

I  turn  me  from  the  gloom  without, 

To  ponder  o'er  a  tale  of  old, 
A  legend  of  the  age  of  Faith, 

By  dreaming  monk  or  abbess  told. 

On  Tintoretto's  canvass  lives 

That  fancy  of  a  loving  heart, 
In  graceful  lines  and  shapes  of  power, 

And  hues  immortal  as  his  art. 

In  Provence  (so  the  story  runs) 

There  lived  a  lord,  to  whom,  as  slave, 

i 
A  peasant  boy  of  tender  years 

The  chance  of  trade  or  conquest  gave. 


THE     LEGEND     OF     ST.     MARK.  71 

Forth-looking  from  the  castle  tower, 
Beyond  the  hills  with  almonds  dark, 

The  straining  eye  could  scarce  discern 
The  chapel  of  the  good  St.  Mark. 

And  there,  when  bitter  word  or  fare 

The  service  of  the  youth  repaid, 
By  stealth,  before  that  holy  shrine, 

For  grace  to  bear  his  wrong,  he  prayed. 

The  steed  stamped  at  the  castle  gate, 
The  boar-hunt  sounded  on  the  hill ; 

Why  staid  the  Baron  from  the  chase, 
With  looks  so  stern,  and  words  so  ill  ? 

"  Go,  bind  yon  slave  !  and  let  him  learn, 
By  scathe  of  fire  and  strain  of  cord, 

How  ill  they  speed  who  give  dead  saints 
The  homage  due  their  living  lord ! " 

They  bound  him  on  the  fearful  rack, 

When,  through  the  dungeon's  vaulted  dark, 

He  saw  the  light  of  shining  robes, 
And  knew  the  face  of  good  St.  Mark. 


72  POEMS. 

Then  sank  the  iron  rack  apart, 

The  cords  released  their  cruel  clasp, 

The  pincers,  with  their  teeth  of  fire, 
Fell  broken  from  the  torturer's  grasp. 

And  lo !  before  the  Youth  and  Saint, 
Barred  door  and  wall  of  stone  gave  way ; 

And  up  from  bondage  and  the  night 
They  passed  to  freedom  and  the  day ! 

0,  dreaming  monk !  thy  tale  is  true ;  — 
0,  painter !  true  thy  pencil's  art ; 

In  tones  of  hope  and  prophecy, 
Ye  whisper  to  my  listening  heart ! 

Unheard  no  burdened  heart's  appeal 
Moans  up  to  God's  inclining  ear; 

Unheeded  by  His  tender  eye, 

Falls  to  the  earth  no  sufferer's  tear. 

For  still  the  Lord  alone  is  God ! 

The  pomp  and  power  of  tyrant  man 
Are  scattered  at  his  lightest  breath, 

Like  chaff  before  the  winnower's  fan. 


THE     LEGEND     OF     ST.     MARK.  73 

Not  always  shall  the  slave  uplift 
His  heavy  hands  to  Heaven  in  vain ; 

God's  angel,  like  the  good  St.  Mark, 
Comes  shining  down  to  break  his  chain ! 

O,  weary  ones  !  ye  may  not  see 

Your  helpers  in  their  downward  flight ; 

Nor  hear  the  sound  of  silver  wings 

Slow  beating  through  the  hush  of  night ! 

But  not  the  less  gray  Dothan  shone, 
With  sunbright  watchers  bending  low, 

That  Fear's  dim  eye  beheld  alone 
The  spear-heads  of  the  Syrian  foe. 

There  are,  who,  like  the  Seer  of  old, 

Can  see  the  helpers  God  has  sent, 
And  how  life's  rugged  mountain-side 

Is  white  with  many  an  angel  tent ! 

They  hear  the  heralds  whom  our  Lord 
Sends  down  his  pathway  to  prepare ; 

And  light,  from  others  hidden,  shines 
On  their  high  place  of  faith  and  prayer. 


74 


POEMS. 


Let  such,  for  earth's  despairing  ones, 
Hopeless,  yet  longing  to  be  free, 

Breathe  once  again  the  Prophet's  prayer : 
"  Lord,  ope  their  eyes,  that  they  may  see ! " 


THE   WELL   OF    LOCH   MAREE.4 

CALM  on  the  breast  of  Loch  Maree 

A  little  isle  reposes ; 
A  shadow  woven  of  the  oak 

And  willow  o'er  it  closes. 

Within,  a  Druid's  mound  is  seen, 
Set  round  with  stony  warders ; 

A  fountain,  gushing  through  the  turf, 
Flows  o'er  its  grassy  borders. 

And  whoso  bathes  therein  his  brow, 
With  care  or  madness  burning, 

Feels  once  again  his  healthful  thought 
And  sense  of  peace  returning. 

0 !  restless  heart  and  fevered  brain, 

Unquiet  and  unstable, 
That  holy  well  of  Loch  Maree 

Is  more  than  idle  fable  ! 


POEMS. 

Life's  changes  vex,  its  discords  stun, 
Its  glaring  sunshine  blindeth, 

And  blest  is  he  who  on  his  way 
That  fount  of  healing  findeth ! 

The  shadows  of  a  humbled  will 
And  contrite  heart  are  o'er  it : 

Go  read  its  legend  —  "  TRUST  IN  GOD"- 
On  Faith's  white  stones  before  it. 


TO  MY  SISTER: 

WITH  A  COPY  OF  "  SUPERNATURALISM  OF  NEW  ENGLAND." 

DEAR  SISTER  !  —  while  the  wise  and  sage 
Turn  coldly  from  my  playful  page, 
And  count  it  strange  that  ripened  age 

Should  stoop  to  boyhood's  folly ; 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  judge  aright 
Of  all  which  makes  the  heart  more  light, 
Or  lends  one  star-gleam  to  the  night 

Of  clouded  Melancholy. 

Away  with  weary  cares  and  themes  !  — 
Swing  wide  the  moon-lit  gate  of  dreams  ! 
Leave  free  once  more  the  land  which  teems 

With  wonders  and  romances ! 
Where  thou,  with  clear  discerning  eyes, 
Shalt  rightly  read  the  truth  which  lies 
Beneath  the  quaintly  masking  guise 

Of  wild  and  wizard  fancies. 


78  P  0  E  M  S . 

Lo  !  once  again  our  feet  we  set 

On  still  green  wood-paths,  twilight  wet, 

By  lonely  brooks,  whose  waters  fret 

The  roots  of  spectral  beeches ; 
Again  the  hearth-fire  glimmers  o'er 
Home's  white-washed  wall  and  painted  floor, 
And  young  eyes  widening  to  the  lore 

Of  faery-folks  and  witches. 

Dear  heart !  —  the  legend  is  not  vain 
Which  lights  that  holy  hearth  again, 
And,  calling  back  from  care  and  pain, 

And  death's  funereal  sadness, 
Draws  round  its  old  familiar  blaze 
The  clustering  groups  of  happier  days, 
And  lends  to  sober  manhood's  gaze 

A  glimpse  of  childish  gladness. 

And,  knowing  how  my  life  hath  been 
A  weary  work  of  tongue  and  pen, 
A  long,  harsh  strife,  with'  strong-willed  men, 
Thou  wilt  not  chide  my  turning, 


TO     MY     SISTER.  79 

To  con,  at  times,  an  idle  rhyme, 
To  pluck  a  flower  from  childhood's  clime, 
Or  listen,  at  Life's  noon-day  chime, 
For  the  sweet  bells  of  Morning ! 


AUTUMN   THOUGHTS. 

FROM    "  MARGARET   SMITH'S    JOURNAL." 

GONE  hath  the  Spring,  with  all  its  flowers, 
And  gone  the  Summer's  pomp  and  show, 

And  Autumn,  in  his  leafless  bowers, 
Is  waiting  for  the  Winter's  snow. 

I  said  to  Earth,  so  cold  and  gray, 
"  An  emblem  of  myself  thou  art : " 

"  Not  so,"  the  Earth  did  seem  to  say, 

"  For  Spring  shall  warm  my  frozen  heart." 

I  soothe  my  wintry  sleep  with  dreams 

Of  warmer  sun  and  softer  rain, 
And  wait  to  hear  the  sound  of  streams 

And  songs  of  merry  birds  again. 

But  thou,  from  whom  the  Spring  hath  gone, 
For  whom  the  flowers  no  longer  blow, 

Who  standest  blighted  and  forlorn, 
Like  Autumn  waiting  for  the  snow : 


AUTUMN     THOUGHTS.  81 

No  hope  is  thine  of  sunnier  hours, 
Thy  Winter  shall  no  more  depart ; 

No  Spring  revive  thy  wasted  flowers, 
Nor  Summer  warm  thy  frozen  heart. 
6 


CALEF    IN   BOSTON,    1692. 

IN  the  solemn  days  of  old, 

Two  men  met  in  Boston  town  — 

One  a  tradesman  frank  and  bold, 
One  a  preacher  of  renown. 

Cried  the  last,  in  bitter  tone  — 
"  Poisoner  of  the  wells  of  truth ! 

Satan's  hireling,  thou  hast  sown 
With  his  tares  the  heart  of  youth !  " 

Spake  the  simple  tradesman  then  — 
"  God  be  judge  'twixt  thou  and  I ; 

All  thou  knowest  of  truth  hath  been 
Unto  men  like  thee  a  lie. 

"  Falsehoods  which  we  spurn  to-day 
Were  the  truths  of  long  ago ; 

Let  the  dead  boughs  fall  away, 
Fresher  shall  the  living  grow. 


CALEF     IN     BOSTON.  S3 

"  God  is  good  and  God  is  light, 

In  this  faith  I  rest  secure ; 
Evil  can  but  serve  the  right, 

Over  all  shall  love  endure. 

"  Of  your  spectral  puppet  play 
I  have  traced  the  cunning  wires ; 

Come  what  will,  I  needs  must  say, 
God  is  true,  and  ye  are  liars." 

When  the  thought  of  man  is  free, 

Error  fears  its  lightest  tones  ; 
So  the  priest  cried,  "  Sadducee  !  " 

And  the  people  took  up  stones. 


- 


In  the  ancient  burying-ground, 
Side  by  side  the  twain  now  lie  — 

One  with  humble  grassy  mound, 
One  with  marbles  pale  and  high. 

But  the  Lord  hath  blest  the  seed 

Which  that  tradesman  scattered  then, 

And  the  preacher's  spectral  creed 
Chills  no  more  the  blood  of  men. 


84  POEMS. 

Let  us  trust,  to  one  is  known 

Perfect  love  which  casts  out  fear, 

While  the  other's  joys  atone 
For  the  wrong  he  suffered  here. 


PART  II. 

TO   PIUS    IX.5 

THE  cannon's  brazen  lips  are  cold ; 

No  red  shell  blazes  down  the  air ; 
And  street  and  tower,  and  temple  old, 

Are  silent  as  despair. 

The  Lombard  stands  no  more  at  bay  — 
Rome's  fresh  young  life  has  bled  in  vain ; 

The  ravens  scattered  by  the  day 
Come  back  with  night  again. 

Now,  while  the  fratricides  of  France 
Are  treading  on  the  neck  of  Rome, 

Hider  at  Gaeta  —  seize  thy  chance  ! 
Coward  and  cruel,  come  ! 


86  POEMS. 

Creep  now  from  Naples'  bloody  skirt ; 

Thy  mummer's  part  was  acted  well, 
While  Rome,  with  steel  and  fire  begirt, 

Before  thy  crusade  fell ! 

Her  death-groans  answered  to  thy  prayer  ; 

Thy  chant,  the  drum  and  bugle-call ; 
Thy  lights,  the  burning  villa's  glare ; 

Thy  beads,  the  shell  and  ball ! 

Let  Austria  clear  thy  way,  with  hands 
Foul  from  Ancona's  cruel  sack, 

And  Naples,  with  his  dastard  bands 
Of  murderers,  lead  thee  back ! 

Rome's  lips  are  dumb;  the  orphan's  wail, 
The  mother's  shriek,  thou  may'st  not  hear, 

Above  the  faithless  Frenchman's  hail, 
The  unsexed  shaveling's  cheer ! 

Go,  bind  on  Rome  her  cast-off  weight, 
The  double  curse  of  crook  and  crown, 

Though  woman's  scorn  and  manhood's  hate 
From  wall  and  roof  flash  down ! 


TO   PIUS  ix.  87 

Nor  heed  those  blood-stains  on  the  wall, 
Not  Tiber's  flood  can  wash  away, 

Where,  in  thy  stately  Quirinal, 
Thy  mangled  victims  lay ! 

Let  the  world  murmur ;  let  its  cry 
Of  horror  and  disgust  be  heard ;  — 

Truth  stands  alone ;  thy  coward  lie 
Is  backed  by  lance  and  sword ! 

The  cannon  of  St.  Angelo, 

And  chanting  priest  and  clanging  bell, 
And  beat  of  drum  and  bugle  blow, 

Shall  greet  thy  coming  well ! 

Let  lips  of  iron  and  tongues  of  slaves 
Fit  welcome  give  thee; — for  her  part, 

Rome,  frowning  o'er  her  new-made  graves, 
Shall  curse  thee  from  her  heart ! 

No  wreaths  of  sad  Campagna's  flowers 
Shall  childhood  in  thy  pathway  fling ; 

No  garlands  from  their  ravaged  bowers 
Shall  Term's  maidens  bring ; 


\ 


POEMS. 

But,  hateful  as  that  tyrant  old, 

The  mocking  witness  of  his  crime, 

In  thee  shall  loathing  eyes  behold 
The  Nero  of  our  time ! 

Stand  where  Rome's  blood  was  freest  shed, 
Mock  Heaven  with  impious  thanks,  and  call 

Its  curses  on  the  patriot  dead, 
Its  blessings  on  the  Gaul ! 

Or  sit  upon  thy  throne  of  lies, 

A  poor,  mean  idol,  blood-besmeared, 

Whom  even  its  worshippers  despise  — 
Unhonored,  unrevered ! 

Yet,  Scandal  of  the  World !  from  thee 
One  needful  truth  mankind  shall  learn  — 

That  kings  and  priests  to  Liberty 
And  God  are  false  in  turn. 

Earth  wearies  of  them ;  and  the  long 

Meek  sufferance  of  the  Heavens  doth  fail ; 

Woe  for  weak  tyrants,  when  the  strong 
Wake,  struggle  and  prevail ! 


TO    PIUS    IX. 

Not  vainly  Eoman  hearts  have  bled 
To  feed  the  Crozier  and  the  Crown, 

If,  roused  thereby,  the  world  shall  tread 
The  twin-born  vampires  down ! 
6 


ELLIOTT.6 

HANDS  off!  thou  tythe-fat  plunderer !  play 

No  trick  of  priestcraft  here ! 
Back,  puny  lordling !  darest  thou  lay 

A  hand  on  Elliott's  bier  ? 
Alive,  your  rank  and  pomp,  as  dust, 

Beneath  his  feet  he  trod : 
He  knew  the  locust  swarm  that  cursed 

The  harvest-fields  of  God. 

On  these  pale  lips,  the  smothered  thought 

Which  England's  millions  feel, 
A  fierce  and  fearful  splendor  caught, 

As  from  his  forge  the  steel. 
Strong-armed  as  Thor  —  a  shower  of  fire 

His  smitten  anvil  flung; 
God's  curse,  Earth's  wrong,  dumb  Hunger's  ire- 

He  gave  them  all  a  tongue ! 


ELLIOTT.  91 

Then  let  the  poor  man's  horny  hands 

Bear  up  the  mighty  dead, 
And  labor's  swart  and  stalwart  bands 

Behind  as  mourners  tread. 
Leave  cant  and  craft  their  baptized  bounds, 

Leave  rank  its  minster  floor ; 
Give  England's  green  and  daisied  grounds 

The  poet  of  the  poor ! 

Lay  down  upon  his  Sheaf's  green  verge 

That  brave  old  heart  of  oak, 
With  fitting  dirge  from  sounding  forge, 

And  pall  of  furnace  smoke !      . , 
Where  whirls  the  stone  its  dizzy  rounds, 

And  axe  and  sledge  are  swung, 
And,  timing  to  their  stormy  sounds, 

His  stormy  lays  are  sung. 

There  let  the  peasant's  step  be  heard, 

The  grinder  chant  his  rhyme ; 
Nor  patron's  praise  nor  dainty  word 

Befits  the  man  or  time. 


92  POEMS. 

No  soft  lament  nor  dreamer's  sigfh 

o 

For  him  whose  words  were  bread  — 
The  Runic  rhyme  arid  spell  whereby 
The  foodless  poor  were  fed ! 

Pile  up  thy  tombs  of  rank  and  pride, 

O  England,  as  thou  wilt ! 
With  pomp  to  nameless  worth  denied, 

Emblazon  titled  guilt ! 
No  part  or  lot  in  these  we  claim ; 

But,  o'er  the  sounding  wave, 
A  common  right  to  Elliott's  name, 

A  freehold  in  his  grave  ! 


ICHABOD! 

So  fallen !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forevermore ! 

Revile  him  not  —  the  Tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all ; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall ! 

Oh !  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 

Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn !  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven ! 


94  POEMS. 

Let  not  the  land,  once  proud  of  him, 

Insult  him  now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  nought 
Save  power  remains  — 

A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 
Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone ;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled : 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead ! 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame ; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame ! 


THE    CHRISTIAN   TOURISTS.7 

No  aimless  wanderers,  by  the  fiend  Unrest 

Goaded  from  shore  to  shore ; 
No  schoolmen,  turning,  in  their  classic  quest, 

The  leaves  of  empire  o'er. 
Simple  of  faith,  and  bearing  in  their  hearts 

The  love  of  man  and  God, 
Isles  of  old  song,  the  Moslem's  ancient  marts, 

And  Scythia's  steppes,  they  trod. 

Where  the  long  shadows  of  the  fir  and  pine 

In  the  night  sun  are  cast, 
And  the  deep  heart  of  many  a  Norland  mine 

Quakes  at  each  riving  blast ; 
Where,  in  barbaric  grandeur,  Moskwa  stands, 

A  baptized  Scythian  queen, 
With  Europe's  arts  and  Asia's  jewelled  hands, 

The  North  and  East  between ! 


96  POEMS. 

Where  still,  through  vales  of  Grecian  fable,  stray 

The  classic  forms  of  yore, 
And  Beauty  smiles,  new  risen  from  the  spray, 

And  Dian  weeps  once  more ; 
Where  every  tongue  in  Smyrna's  mart  resounds ; 

And  Stamboul  from  the  sea 
Lifts  her  tall  minarets  over  burial-grounds 

Black  with  the  cypress  tree ! 

From  Malta's  temples  to  the  gates  of  Rome, 

Following  the  track  of  Paul, 
And  where  the  Alps  gird  round  the  Switzer's  home 

Their  vast,  eternal  wall ; 
They  paused  not  by  the  ruins  of  old  time, 

They  scanned  no  pictures  rare, 
Nor  lingered  where  the  snow-locked  mountains  climb 

The  cold  abyss  of  air ! 

But  unto  prisons,  where  men  lay  in  chains, 

To  haunts  where  Hunger  pined, 
To  kings  and  courts  forgetful  of  the  pains 

And  wants  of  human  kind, 


THE      CHRISTIAN      TOURISTS.  97 

Scattering1  sweet  words,  and  quiet  deeds  of  good, 

Along  their  way,  like  flowers, 
Or,  pleading  as  Christ's  freemen  only  could, 

With  princes  and  with  powers; 

Their  single  aim  the  purpose  to  fulfil 

Of  Truth,  from  day  to  day, 
Simply  obedient  to  its  guiding  will, 

They  held  their  pilgrim  way. 
Yet  dream  not,  hence,  the  beautiful  and  old 

Were  wasted  on  their  sight, 
Who  in  the  school  of  Christ  had  learned  to  hold 

All  outward  things  aright. 

Not  less  to  them  the  breath  of  vineyards  blown 

From  off  the  Cyprian  shore, 
Not  less  for  them  the  Alps  in  sunset  shone, 

That  man  they  valued  more. 
A  life  of  beauty  lends  to  all  it  sees 

The  beauty  of  its  thought ; 
And  fairest  forms  and  sweetest  harmonies 

Make  glad  its  way,  unsought, 

7 


POEMS.  f 

In  sweet  accordancy  of  praise  and  love, 

The  singing  waters  run ; 
And  sunset  mountains  wear  in  light  above 

The  smile  of  duty  done ; 
Sure  stands  the  promise  —  ever  to  the  meek 

A  heritage  is  given ; 
Nor  lose  they  Earth  who,  single-hearted,  seek 

The  righteousness  of  Heaven  ! 


THE   MEN   OF   OLD. 

WELL  speed  thy  mission,  bold  Iconoclast ! 
Yet  all  unworthy  of  its  trust  thou  art, 
If,  with  dry  eye,  and  cold,  unloving  heart, 

Thou  tread'st  the  solemn  Pantheon  of  the  Past, 
By  the  great  Future's  dazzling  hope  made  blind 
To  all  the  beauty,  power,  and  truth,  behind. 

Not  without  reverent  awe  shouldst  thou  put  by 
The  cypress  branches  and  the  amaranth  blooms, 
Where,  with  clasped  hands  of  prayer,  upon  their  tombs 

The  effigies  of  old  confessors  lie, 

God's  witnesses ;  the  voices  of  His  will, 

Heard  in  the  slow  march'  of  the  centuries  still ! 

Such  were  the  men  at  whose  rebuking  frown, 

Dark  with  God's  wrath,  the  tyrant's  knee  went  down; 

Such  from  the  terrors  of  the  guilty  drew 

The  vassal's  freedom  and  the  poor  man's  due. 


100  POEMS. 

St.  Anselm  (may  he  rest  forevermore 

In  Heaven's  sweet  peace ! )  forbade,  of  old,  the  sale 

Of  men  as  slaves,  and  from  the  sacred  pale 
Hurled  the  Northumbrian  buyers  of  the  poor. 
To  ransom  souls  from  bonds  and  evil  fate, 
St.  Ambrose  melted  down  the  sacred  plate  — 
Image  of  saint,  the  chalice  and  the  pix, 
Crosses  of  gold,  and  silver  candlesticks. 
"  MAN  is  WORTH  MORE  THAN  TEMPLES  ! "  he  replied 
To  such  as  came  his  holy  work  to  chide. 
And  brave  Cesarius,  stripping  altars  bare, 

And  coining  from  the  Abbey's  golden  hoard 
The  captive's  freedom,  answered  to  the  prayer 

Or  threat  of  those  whose  fierce  zeal  for  the  Lord 
Stifled  their  love  of  man  —  "  An  earthen  dish 

The  last  sad  supper  of  the  Master  bore  : 
Most  miserable  sinners !  do  ye  wish 

More  than  your  Lord,  and  grudge  His  dying  poor 
What  your  own  pride  and  not  His  need  requires  ? 

Souls,  than  these  shining  gauds,  He  values  more ; 
Mercy,  not  sacrifice,  His  heart  desires !  " 


THE     MEN     OF     OLD.  101 

O  faithful  worthies !  resting  far  behind 
In  your  dark  ages,  since  ye  fell  asleep, 
Much  has  been  done  for  truth  and  human  kind  — 
Shadows  are  scattered  wherein  ye  groped  blind ; 
Man  claims  his  birthright,  freer  pulses  leap 
Through  peoples  driven  in  your  day  like  sheep ; 
Yet,  like  your  own,  our  age's  sphere  of  light, 
Though  widening  still,  is  walled  around  by  night ; 
With  slow,  reluctant  eye,  the  Church  has  read, 
Sceptic  at  heart,  the  lessons  of  its  Head ; 
Counting,  too  oft,  its  living  members  less 
Than  the  wall's  garnish  and  the  pulpit's  dress ; 
World-moving  zeal,  with  power  to  bless  and  feed 
Life's  fainting  pilgrims,  to  their  utter  need, 
Instead  of  bread,  holds  out  the  stone  of  creed ; 
Sect  builds  and  worships  where  its  wealth  and  pride 
And  vanity  stand  shrined  and  deified, 
Careless  that  in  the  shadow  of  its  walls 
God's  living  temple  into  ruin  falls. 
We  need,  methinks,  the  prophet-hero  still, 
Saints  true  of  life,  and  martyrs  strong  of  will, 


102  POEMS. 

To  tread  the  land,  even  now,  as  Xavier  trod 
The  streets  of  Goa,  barefoot,  with  his  bell, 

Proclaiming  freedom  in  the  name  of  God, 
And  startling  tyrants  with  the  fear  of  hell ! 
Soft  words,  smooth  prophecies,  are  doubtless  well ; 

But  to  rebuke  the  age's  popular  crime, 

We  need*  the  souls  of  fire,  the  hearts  of  that  old  time ! 


THE  PEACE  CONVENTION  AT 
BRUSSELS. 

STILL  in  thy  streets,  oh  Paris !  doth  the  stain 
Of  blood  defy  the  cleansing  autumn  rain ; 
Still  breaks  the  smoke  Messina's  ruins  through, 
And  Naples  mourns  that  new  Bartholomew, 
When  squalid  beggary,  for  a  dole  of  bread, 
At  a  crowned  murderer's  beck  of  license  fed 
The  yawning  trenches  with  her  noble  dead ; 
Still,  doomed  Vienna,  through  thy  stately  halls 
The  shell  goes  crashing  and  the  red  shot  falls, 
And,  leagued  to  crush  thee,  on  the  Danube's  side, 
The  bearded  Croat  and  Bosniak  spearman  ride ; 
Still  in  that  vale  where  Himalaya's  snow 
Melts  round  the  cornfields  and  the  vines  below, 
The  Sikh's  hot  cannon,  answering  ball  for  ball, 
Flames  in  the  breach  of  Moultan's  shattered  wall  ; 
On  Chenab's  side  the  vulture  seeks  the  slain, 
And  Sutlej  paints  with  blood  its  banks  again. 


104  POEMS. 

"  What  folly,  then,"  the  faithless  critic  cries, 

With  sneering  lip,  and  wise,  world-knowing  eyes, 

"  While  fort  to  fort,  and  post  to  post,  repeat 

The  ceaseless  challenge  of  the  war-drum's  beat, 

And  round  the  green  earth,  to  the  church-bell's  chime, 

The  morning  drum-roll  of  the  camp  keeps  time, 

To  dream  of  peace  amidst  a  world  in  arms, 

Of  swords  to  ploughshares  changed  by  scriptural  charms, 

Of  nations,  drunken  with  the  wine  of  blood, 

Staggering  to  take  the  Pledge  of  Brotherhood, 

Like  tipplers  answering  Father  Mathew's  call  — 

The  sullen  Spaniard,  and  the  mad-cap  Gaul, 

The  bull-dog  Briton,  yielding  but  with  life, 

The  Yankee  swaggering  with  his  bowie  knife, 

The  Russ,  from  banquets  with  the  vulture  shared, 

The  blood  still  dripping  from  his  amber  beard, 

Quitting  their  mad  Berserker  dance,  to  hear 

The  dull,  meek  droning  of  a  drab-coat  seer ; 

Leaving  the  sport  of  Presidents  and  Kings, 

Where  men  for  dice  each  titled  gambler  flings, 

To  meet  alternate  on  the  Seine  and  Thames, 

For  tea  and  gossip,  like  old  country  dames  ! 


PEACE     CONVENTION     AT     BRUSSELS.      105 

No !  let  the  cravens  plead  the  weakling's  cant, 

Let  Cobden  cipher,  and  let  Vincent  rant, 

Let  Sturge  preach  peace  to  democratic  throngs, 

And  Burritt,  stammering  through  his  hundred  tongues, 

Repeat,  in  all,  his  ghostly  lessons  o'er, 

Timed  to  the  pauses  of  the  battery's  roar ; 

Check  Ban  or  Kaiser  with  the  barricade 

Of  "  Olive-leaves"  and  Resolutions  made, 

Spike  guns  with  pointed  scripture-texts,  and  hope 

To  capsize  navies  with  a  windy  trope ; 

Still  shall  the  glory  and  the  pomp  of  War 

Along  their  train  the  shouting  millions  draw ; 

Still  dusty  Labor  to  the  passing  Brave 

His  cap  shall  doff,  and  Beauty's  kerchief  wave ; 

Still  shall  the  bard  to  Valor  tune  his  song, 

Still  Hero-worship  kneel  before  the  Strong ; 

Rosy  and  sleek,  the  sable-gowned  divine, 

O'er  his  third  bottle  of  suggestive  wine, 

To  plumed  and  sworded  auditors,  shall  prove 

Their  trade  accordant  with  the  Law  of  Love  ; 

And  Church  for  State,  and  State  for  Church,  shall  fight, 

And  both  agree,  that  Might  alone  is  Right !  " 


106  POEMS. 

Despite  of  sneers  like  these,  oh,  faithful  few, 
Who  dare  to  hold  God's  word  and  witness  true, 
Whose  clear-eyed  faith  transcends  our  evil  time, 
And,  o'er  the  present  wilderness  of  crime, 
Sees  the  calm  future,  with  its  robes  of  green, 
Its  fleece-flecked  mountains,  and  soft  streams  between,  — 
Still  keep  the  path  which  duty  bids  ye  tread, 
Though  worldly  wisdom  shake  the  cautious  head ; 
No  truth  from  Heaven  descends  upon  our  sphere, 
Without  the  greeting  of  the  sceptic's  sneer ; 
Denied,  and  mocked  at,  till  its  blessings  fall, 
Common  as  dew  and  sunshine,  over  all. 

Then,  o'er  Earth's  war-field,  till  the  strife  shall  cease, 
Like  Morven's  harpers,  sing  your  song  of  peace ; 
As  in  old  fable  rang  the  Thracian's  lyre, 
Midst  howl  of  fiends  and  roar  of  penal  fire, 
Till  the  fierce  din  to  pleasing  murmurs  fell, 
And  love  subdued  the  maddened  heart  of  hell. 
Lend,  once  again,  that  holy  song  a  tongue, 
Which  the  glad  angels  of  the  Advent  sung, 
Their  cradle-anthem  for  the  Saviour's  birth, 
Glory  to  God,  and  peace  unto  the  earth ! 


PEACE     CONVENTION     AT     BRUSSELS.        107 

Through  the  mad  discord  send  that  calming  word 
Which  wind  and  wave  on  wild  Genesereth  heard, 
Lift  in  Christ's  name  His  Cross  against  the  Sword ! 
Not  vain  the  vision  which  the  prophets  saw, 
Skirting  with  green  the  fiery  waste  of  war, 
Through  the  hot  sand-gleam,  looming  soft  and  calm 
On  the  sky's  rim,  the  fountain-shading  palm. 
Still  lives  for  Earth,  which  fiends  so  long  have  trod, 
The  great  hope  resting  on  the  truth  of  God  — 
Evil  shall  cease  and  Violence  pass  away, 
And  the  tired  world  breathe  free  through  a  long  Sabbath 
day. 

llth  Mo.,  1848. 


THE  WISH   OF    TO-DAY. 

I  ASK  not  now  for  gold  to  gild 

With  mocking  shine  a  weary  frame ; 

The  yearning  of  the  mind  is  stilled  — 
I  ask  not  now  for  Fame. 

A  rose-cloud,  dimly  seen  above, 

Melting  in  heaven's  blue  depths  away  - 

0  !  sweet,  fond  dream  of  human  Love  ! 
For  thee  I  may  not  pray. 

But,  bowed  in  lowliness  of  mind, 
I  make  my  humble  wishes  known  — 

1  only  ask  a  will  resigned, 

0,  Father,  to  thine  own ! 

To-day,  beneath  thy  chastening  eye, 
I  crave  alone  for  peace  and  rest, 

Submissive  in  thy  hand  to  lie, 
And  feel  that  it  is  best. 


THE     WISH    OF    TO-DAY.  109 

A  marvel  seems  the  Universe, 

A  miracle  our  Life  and  Death ; 
A  mystery  which  I  cannot  pierce, 

Around,  above,  beneath, 

In  vain  I  task  my  aching  brain, 
In  vain  the  sage's  thought  I  scan ; 

I  only  feel  how  weak  and  vain, 
How  poor  and  blind,  is  man. 

And  now  my  spirit  sighs  for  home, 
And  longs  for  light  whereby  to  see, 

And,  like  a  weary  child,  would  come, 
0,  Father,  unto  Thee ! 

Though  oft,  like  letters  traced  on  sand, 
My  weak  resolves  have  passed  away, 

In  mercy  lend  thy  helping  hand 
Unto  my  prayer  to-day ! 


OUR    STATE. 

THE  South-land  boasts  its  teeming  cane, 
The  prairied  West  its  heavy  grain, 
And  sunset's  radiant  gates  unfold 
On  rising  marts  and  sands  of  gold ! 

Rough,  bleak  and  hard,  our  little  State 
Is  scant  of  soil,  of  limits  strait ; 
Her  yellow  sands  are  sands  alone, 
Her  only  mines  are  ice  and  stone ! 

From  Autumn  frost  to  April  rain, 
Too  long  her  winter  woods  complain ; 
From  budding  flower  to  falling  leaf, 
Her  summer  time  is  all  too  brief. 

Yet,  on  her  rocks,  and  on  her  sands, 
And  wintry  hills,  the  school-house  stands, 
And  what  her  rugged  soil  denies, 
The  harvest  of  the  mind  supplies. 


OUR     STATE.  Ill 

The  riches  of  the  commonwealth 

Are  free,  strong  minds,  and  hearts  of  health ; 

And  more  to  her  than  gold  or  grain, 

The  cunning  hand  and  cultured  brain. 

For  well  she  keeps  her  ancient  stock, 
The  stubborn  strength  of  Pilgrim  Rock ; 
And  still  maintains,  with  milder  laws, 
And  clearer  light,  the  Good  Old  Cause ! 

Nor  heeds  the  sceptic's  puny  hands, 

While  near  her  school  the  church-spire  stands ; 

Nor  fears  the  blinded  bigot's  rule, 

While  near  her  church-spire  stands  the  school ! 


EVENING   IN    BURMA!!.8 

A  NIGHT  of  wonder !  —  piled  afar 
With  ebon  feet  and  crests  of  snow, 

Like  Himalaya's  peaks,  which  bar 

The  sunset  and  the  sunset's  star 
From  half  the  shadowed  vale  below, 

Volumed  and  vast  the  dense  clouds  lie, 

And  over  them,  and  down  the  sky, 
Paled  in  the  moon,  the  lightnings  go. 

And  what  a  strength  of  light  and  shade 
Is  chequering  all  the  earth  below !  — 

And,  through  the  jungle's  verdant  braid, 

Of  tangled  vine  and  wild  reed  made, 

What  blossoms  in  the  moonlight  glow !  — 

The  Indian  rose's  loveliness, 

The  ceiba  with  its  crimson  dress, 

The  twining  myrtle  dropped  with  snow. 


EVENING     IN     BUR  M  AH.  113 

And  flitting  in  the  fragrant  air, 

Or  nestling  in  the  shadowy  trees, 
A  thousand  bright-hued  birds  are  there  — 
Strange  plumage,  quivering  wild  and  rare, 

With  every  faintly  breathing  breeze ; 
And,  wet  with  dew  from  roses  shed, 
The  bulbul  droops  her  weary  head, 

Forgetful  of  her  melodies. 

Uprising  from  the  orange-leaves, 

The  tall  pagoda's  turrets  glow ; 
O'er  graceful  shaft  and  fretted  eaves, 
Its  verdant  web  the  myrtle  weaves, 

And  hangs  in  flowering  wreaths  below ; 
And  where  the  clustered  palms  eclipse 
The  moonbeams,  from  its  marble  lips 

The  fountain's  silver  waters  flow. 

Strange  beauty  fills  the  earth  and  air, 

The  fragrant  grove  and  flowering  tree, 
And  yet  my  thoughts  are  wandering  where 
My  native  rocks  lie  bleak  and  bare, 

8 


114  POEMS. 

A  weary  way  beyond  the  sea. 
The  yearning  spirit  is  not  here ; 
It  lingers  on  a  spot  more  dear 

Than  India's  brightest  bowers  to  me. 

Methinks  I  tread  the  well-known  street  — 

The  tree  my  childhood  loved  is  there, 
Its  bare-worn  roots  are  at  my  feet, 
And  through  its  open  boughs  I  meet 

White  glimpses  of  the  place  of  prayer ; 
And  unforgotten  eyes  again 
Are  glancing  through  the  cottage  pane, 
Than  Asia's  lustrous  eyes  more  fair. 

0,  holy  haunts !  oh,  childhood's  home  ! 

Where,  now,  my  wandering  heart,  is  thine  ? 
Here,  where  the  dusky  heathen  come 
To  bow  before  the  deaf  and  dumb, 

Dead  idols  of  their  own  design ; 
Where  in  the  worshipped  river's  tide 
The  infant  sinks,  and  on  its  side 

The  widow's  funeral  altars  shine ! 


EVENING     IN     BURMAH.  115 

Here,  where,  mid  light  and  song  and  flowers, 

The  priceless  soul  in  ruin  lies  — 
Lost,  dead  to  all  those  better  powers 
Which  link  this  fallen  world  of  ours 

To  God's  clear-shining  Paradise ; 
And  wrong  and  shame  and  hideous  crime 
Are  like  the  foliage  of  their  clime, 

The  unshorn  growth  of  centuries ! 

Turn,  then,  my  heart;  thy  home  is  here ; 

No  other  now  remains  for  thee : 
The  smile  of  love,  and  friendship's  tear, 
The  tones  that  melted  on  thine  ear, 

The  mutual  thrill  of  sympathy, 
The  welcome  of  the  household  band, 
The  pressure  of  the  lip  and  hand, 

Thou  mayst  not  hear,  nor  feel,  nor  see. 

God  of  my  spirit !  —  Thou,  alone, 

Who  watchest  o'er  my  pillowed  head, 
Whose  ear  is  open  to  the  moan 
And  sorrowing  of  thy  child,  hast  known 


116  POEMS. 

The  grief  which  at  my  heart  has  fed, — 
The  struggle  of  my  soul  to  rise 
Above  its  earth-born  sympathies,  — 

The  tears  of  many  a  sleepless  bed ! 

0,  be  thine  arm,  as  it  hath  been, 

In  every  test  of  heart  and  faith,  — 
The  tempter's  doubt,  the  wiles  of  men, 
The  heathen's  scoff,  the  bosom  sin,  — 

A  helper  and  a  stay  beneath ; 
A  strength  in  weakness,  through  the  strife 
And  anguish  of  my  wasting  life  — 
My  solace  and  my  hope,  in  death ! 


ALL'S    WELL. 

THE  clouds,  which  rise  with  thunder,  slake 

Our  thirsty  souls  with  rain ; 
The  blow  most  dreaded  falls  to  break 

From  off  our  limbs  a  chain ; 
And  wrongs  of  man  to  man  but  make 

The  love  of  God  more  plain. 
As  through  the  shadowy  lens  of  even 
The  eye  looks  farthest  into  heaven, 
On  gleams  of  star  and  depths  of  blue 
The  glaring  sunshine  never  knew ! 


SEED    TIME   AND    HARVEST. 

As  o'er  his  furrowed  fields  which  lie 
Beneath  a  coldly-dropping  sky, 
Yet  chill  with  winter's  melted  snow, 
The  husbandman  goes  forth  to  sow ; 

Thus,  Freedom,  on  the  bitter  blast 
The  ventures  of  thy  seed  we  cast, 
And  trust  to  warmer  sun  and  rain, 
To  swell  the  germ,  and  fill  the  grain. 

Who  calls  thy  glorious  service  hard  ? 
Who  deems  it  not  its  own  reward  ? 
Who,  for  its  trials,  counts  it  less 
A  cause  of  praise  and  thankfulness  ? 

It  may  not  be  our  lot  to  wield 
The  sickle  in  the  ripened  field ; 
Nor  ours  to  hear,  on  summer  eves, 
The  reaper's  song  among  the  sheaves ; 


SEED    TIME     AND    HARVEST.  119 

Yet  where  our  duty's  task  is  wrought 
In  unison  with  God's  great  thought, 
The  near  and  future  blend  in  one, 
And  whatsoe'er  is  willed  is  done  ! 

And  ours  the  grateful  service  whence 
Comes,  day  by  day,  the  recompense ; 
The  hope,  the  trust,  the  purpose  stayed, 
The  fountain  and  the  noonday  shade. 

And  were  this  life  the  utmost  span, 
The  only  end  and  aim  of  man, 
Better  the  toil  of  fields  like  these 
Than  waking  dream  and  slothful  ease. 

But  life,  though  falling  like  our  grain, 
Like  that  revives  and  springs  again ; 
And,  early  called,  how  blest  are  they 
Who  wait  in  heaven  their  harvest-day  ! 


TO    A.    K. 

ON    RECEIVING   A    BASKET   OF    SEA   MOSSES. 

THANKS  for  thy  gift 
Of  ocean  flowers, 
Born  where  the  golden  drift 
Of  the  slant  sunshine  falls 
Down  the  green,  tremulous  walls 
Of  water,  to  the  cool,  still  coral  bowers, 
Where,  under  rainbows  of  perpetual  showers, 
God's  gardens  of  the  deep 
His  patient  angels  keep ; 
Gladdening  the  dim,  strange  solitude 

With  fairest  forms  and  hues,  and  thus 
Forever  teaching  us 

The  lesson  which  the  many-colored  skies, 
The  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  painted  butterflies, 
The  deer's  branched  antlers,  the  gay  bird  that  flings 
The  tropic  sunshine  from  its  golden  wings, 


TO    A.     K.  121 

The  brightness  of  the  human  countenance, 
Its  play  of  smiles,  the  magic  of  a  glance, 

Forevermore  repeat, 

In  varied  tones  and  sweet, 
That  beauty,  in  and  of  itself,  is  good. 

0,  kind  and  generous  friend,  o'er  whom 
The  sunset  hues  of  Time  are  cast, 
Painting,  upon  the  overpast 
And  scattered  clouds  of  noon-day  sorrow, 
The  promise  of  a  fairer  morrow, 

An  earnest  of  the  better  life  to  come  ; 
The  binding  of  the  spirit  broken, 
The  warning  to  the  erring  spoken, 

The  comfort  of  the  sad, 
The  eye  to  see,  the  hand  to  cull 
Of  common  things  the  beautiful, 

The  absent  heart  made  glad 
By  simple  gift  or  graceful  token 
Of  love  it  needs  as  daily  food, 
All  own  one  Source,  and  all  are  good ! 
Hence,  tracking  sunny  cove  and  reach, 
Where  spent  waves  glimmer  up  the  beach, 


122  POEMS. 

And  toss  their  gifts  of  weed  and  shell 
From  foamy  curve  and  combing  swell, 
No  unbefitting  task  was  thine 

To  weave  these  flowers  so  soft  and  fair 
In  unison  with  His  design, 

Who  loveth  beauty  everywhere  ; 
And  makes  in  every  zone  and  clime, 

In  ocean  and  in  upper  air,    • 
"  All  things  beautiful  in  their  time." 

For  not  alone  in  tones  of  awe  and  power 

He  speaks  to  man ; 

The  cloudy  horror  of  the  thunder-shower 
His  rainbows  span ; 
And,  where  the  caravan 
Winds  o'er  the  desert,  leaving,  as  in  air 
The  crane-flock  leaves,  no  trace  of  passage  there, 

He  gives  the  weary  eye 
The  palm-leaf  shadow  for  the  hot  noon  hours, 

And  on  its  branches  dry 
Calls  out  the  acacia's  flowers  ; 
And,  where  the  dark  shaft  pierces  down 


TO    A  .     K  .  123 

Beneath  the  mountain  roots, 
Seen  by  the  miner's  lamp  alone, 
The  star-like  crystal  shoots  ; 
So,  where,  the  winds  and  waves  below, 
The  coral-branched  gardens  grow, 
His  climbing  weeds  and  mosses  show, 
Like  foliage,  on  each  stony  bough, 
Of  varied  hues  more  strangely  gay 
Than  forest  leaves  in  autumn's  day ;  — 

Thus  evermore, 

On  sky,  and  wave,  and  shore, 
An  all-pervading  beauty  seems  to  say  : 
God's  love  and  power  are  one ;  and  they, 
Who,  like  the  thunder  of  a  sultry  day, 

Smite  to  restore, 

And  they,  who,  like  the  gentle  wind,  uplift 
The  petals  of  the  dew-wet  flowers,  and  drift 

Their  perfume  on  the  air, 
Alike  may  serve  Him,  each,  with  their  own  gift, 

Making  their  lives  a  prayer  ! 


NOTES. 


NOTE  1,  page  6. 

For  the  idea  of  this  line,  I  am  indebted  to  Emerson,  in  his 
inimitable  sonnet  to  the  Rhodora  : 

"  If  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 

Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being." 

NOTE  2,  page  54. 
"Winnipiseogee :  "  Smile  of  the  Great  Spirit." 

NOTE  3,  page  70. 

This  legend  is  the  subject  of  a  celebrated  picture  by  Tin- 
toretto, of  which  Mr.  Rogers  possesses  the  original  sketch. 
The  slave  lies  on  the  ground,  amid  a  crowd  of  spectators,  who 
look  on,  animated  by  all  the  various  emotions  of  sympathy, 
rage,  terror  ;  a  woman,  in  front,  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  has 
always  been  admired  for  the  lifelike  vivacity  of  her  attitude 
and  expression.  The  executioner  holds  up  the  broken  imple- 
ments ;  St.  Mark,  with  a  headlong  movement,  seems  to  rush 
down  from  heaven  in  haste  to  save  his  worshipper.  The  dra- 
matic grouping  in  this  picture  is  wonderful  j  the  coloring,  in 
its  gorgeous  depth  and  harmony,  is,  in  Mr.  Rogers'  sketch, 
finer  than  in  the  picture.  —  Mrs.  Jamiesori's  Poetry  of  Sacred  and 
Legendary  Art,  vol.  1,  page  121. 


126  NOTES. 

NOTE  4,  page  75. 

Pennant,  in  his  "  Voyage  to  the  Hebrides/'  describes  the  holy 
well  of  Loch  Maree,  the  waters  of  which  were  supposed  to  effect 
a  miraculous  cure  of  melancholy,  trouble,  and  insanity. 

NOTE  5,  page  85. 

The  writer  of  these  lines  is  no  enemy  of  Catholics.  He  has, 
on  more  than  one  occasion,  exposed  himself  to  the  censures  of 
his  Protestant  brethren,  by  his  strenuous  endeavors  to  procure 
indemnification  for  the  owners  of  the  convent  destroyed  near 
Boston.  He  defended  the  cause  of  the  Irish  patriots  long  be- 
fore it  had  become  popular  in  this  country  j  and  he  was  one  of 
the  first  to  urge  the  most  liberal  aid  to  the  suffering  and  starving 
population  of  the  Catholic  island.  The  severity  of  his  language 
finds  its  ample  apology  in  the  reluctant  confession  of  one  of  the 
most  eminent  Romish  priests,  the  eloquent  and  devoted  Father 
Ventura. 

NOTE  6,  page  90. 

Ebenezer  Elliott,  the  intelligence  of  whose  death  has  re- 
cently reached  us,  was,  to  the  artisans  of  England,  what 
Burns  was  to  the  peasantry  of  Scotland.  His  "Corn-law 
Rhymes  "  contributed  not  a  little  to  that  overwhelming  tide  of 
popular  opinion  and  feeling  which  resulted  in  the  repeal  of 
the  tax  on  bread.  Well  has  the  eloquent  author  of  "  The  Re- 
forms and  Reformers  of  Great  Britain"  said  of  him  —  "  Not  corn- 
law  repealers  alone,  but  all  Britons  who  moisten  their  scanty 
bread  with  the  sweat  of  the  brow,  are  largely  indebted  to  his 
inspiring  lays,  for  the  mighty  bound  which  the  laboring  mind 
of  England  has  taken,  in  our  day." 

NOTE  7,  page  95. 

The  reader  of  the  Biography  of  the  late  WILLIAM  ALLEN, 
the  philanthropic  associate  of  Clarkson  and  Romilly,  cannot  fail 


.NOTES.  127 

to  admire  his  simple  and  beautiful  record  of  a  tour  through 
Europe,  in  the  years  1818  and  1819,  in  the  company  of  his 
American  friend,  Stephen  Grellett. 

NOTE  8,  page  112. 

It  is  an  awful,  an  arduous  thing,  to  root  out  every  affection 
for  earthly  things,  so  as  to  live  only  for  another  world.  I  am 
now  far,  very  far,  from  you  all  j  but  as  often  as  I  look  around, 
and  see  the  Indian  scenery,  I  sigh  to  think  of  the  distance  tnat 
separates  us.  —  Letter  of  Henry  Marty n  from  India. 


